


Some are born and some are dyin'

by nagdabbit



Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: (? a little?), Handcuffs, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Knives, M/M, Murder, Threats of Violence, mild coercion, murder boyfriends, technically pre-murder boyfriends?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-02
Updated: 2020-04-02
Packaged: 2021-02-28 22:47:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,579
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23444962
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nagdabbit/pseuds/nagdabbit
Summary: It hadn’t been hard to lure him into the woods. He hadn’t needed much more than a lifted brow, a slow smirk, a raised chin. Offer a fight, raise the stakes, catch him off guard. He was too trusting, really. Too ready to take things at face value, as if he was the only thing in Hawkins with something to hide.
Relationships: Billy Hargrove/Steve Harrington
Comments: 20
Kudos: 76
Collections: Horrorscopes, Round 2: Murder Boy/girl-friends





	Some are born and some are dyin'

**Author's Note:**

> aaaahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh i don't do horror but i offer some murdy boifrans?? uh, title from The Man Comes Around by Johnny Cash
> 
> For Horrorscopes Round 2: Murder Boyfriends + Capricorn
> 
> EDIT: MY BEST FRIEND MADE A [MOODBOARD](https://samfosho.tumblr.com/post/621917896963194880/the-amount-of-time-i-spend-just-making-moodboards) FOR THIS FIC AND I'M DYING

He went down _easy_ , all warm skin and California honey, lit silver and wine in the pale light through the thick trees.

But, Billy really hadn’t been ready for it. Hadn’t expected it, the kick to the back of his knee that took him to the dirt. Might’ve been an entirely different story if he had.

Steve followed him down, kept every bit of himself that he could manage pressed up tight against the other boy. Pressed him into the cold dirt with all his weight and an elbow between his shoulder blades. Pressed close enough he could hear the boy's teeth _grind_. Hear the catch in his breath at the sharp _snik_ of the knife, watch him _flinch_ at the touch of cool steel on the back on his neck. 

"You're gonna wanna stay still for a sec, Hargrove," Steve murmured, gently nuzzling his cheek. "You gonna do that for me?"

He watched Billy _snarl_ , but the boy didn't fight. He gave a small, sharp jerk of his head, careful to keep from pressing into the blade.

Satisfied, Steve sat back to straddle Billy's hips. He kept the knife pressed to his back, tip digging against the knobs of his spine through his thin jacket. It was cold, he knew from the clouds his breaths made in the air in front of him, but he didn't feel it. He wasn't shivering, not like the trembling body beneath him. "Good boy. Put your hands behind your back, now."

More of a grimace than a snarl, but a slight _dig_ of the knife point kicked him into action. Steve dug the stolen cuffs from his back pocket.

It hadn’t been hard to lure him into the woods. He hadn’t needed much more than a lifted brow, a slow smirk, a raised chin. Offer a fight, raise the stakes, catch him off guard. He was too trusting, really. Too ready to take things at face value, as if he was the only thing in Hawkins with something to hide. 

He pulled back and pulled Billy up to his knees by a grip on the back of his godawful jacket. Steve knelt down at his back, kept pressed as tight and close as he could manage, trapping Billy’s straining arms between them. He struggled and tore at the cuffs as if he was trying to pick the lock with bitten-short nails. "There, much better."

"Never took you for a kinky fucker, Harrington," he spat, a cheap imitation of his usual bravado. He tried to push back, away from the blade Steve hooked beneath his chin. It was the clip point, the knife that had quickly become his favourite. Long and sharp as sin. Steve fisted a hand in his curls to keep him still. When he spoke again his voice was strained, pitched high and breathless. "I knock somethin' loose with that plate, pretty boy?"

"Maybe," Steve murmured, tilting his head in consideration. "Might've just been the last straw. Hard to say, really."

Billy snarled, but it was meek at best. He was on his knees, after all, a fist in his hair and a blade at his throat and his wrists in chains. 

"I got a question to ask you, Hargrove, and it's gonna be a tough one," he said, keeping quiet in the cool still of the forest. "But I need to show you something first."

“Yeah? Like _what_?” he snapped, voice as strained as the tight line of his shoulders. “I'm an easy lay, Harrington. Don't gotta go through all this trouble just to get your dick sucked.”

He huffed a small laugh, shook his head, pressed a kiss to the space beneath Billy’s ear. He thought about taking the dangling earring into his mouth, giving it a gentle tug. He shelved it for later, if there was one. "No, no. See, there's _things_ here in Hawkins that shouldn't be. Dark, scary things. Things comin' after my _kids_ , my people," he murmured, and continued nosing at the spot just behind Billy's ear. "And there's some of those things that I can't do a damn thing about."

"And what _the fuck_ does that have to do with me?" Billy snapped, and gave a token struggle. The cuffs around his wrists rattled.

The hand he kept fisted in Billy's curls jerked and twisted, directing his gaze a little to their left. " _Because_ ," he said, relishing in the soft catch in Billy's breath, the rabbit-quick kick in his heartbeat, the rigid line of his back as he _froze_ , "your dad isn't one of them."

In the pale moonlight, Neil Hargrove lay motionless. 

He was curled, half on his front, where he’d fallen in the damp brush. His hands were pinned in place, restrained simply by the long, sharp blade pushed through the center of his palms and into the base of his spine. In the pale light, his blood bled inky black into the sodden earth where he lay.

"There's things in Hawkins that need taken care of," he murmured, mouthing at the skin of Billy's throat. "And there's things here that need gotten _rid of_."

Billy made a small, weak keening sound and then his entire frame went lax in Steve's arms. He dropped his head back over Steve’s shoulder, those baby blue pointed skyward as hot tears leaked down from the corners of his eyes. He stopped straining against the cuffs, stopped trying to get free of Steve's hold.

"Is--is he _dead_?"

"Probably." And then he hummed, thoughtfully. Neil Hargrove never did a damn thing easy, as far as Steve could see. He wouldn't take to death kindly. "Maybe. Does it matter?"

"Yeah, it fuckin' _matters_ ," he spat. There was the tell-tale tremble to his voice that came with the effort of holding back a sob.

Steve hummed again, pressed a kiss to Billy's pulse and pulled away. He considered Billy a moment, his slumped shoulders and limp hands, and tossed the knife away as well. He dug the keys out of his pocket and released Billy's wrists. 

His freed arms dropped to his side's, but he otherwise didn't move. 

Steve brushed a hand over Billy's cheek and rose. The body didn't move as he approached, probably hadn't moved since Steve had stabbed in the knife and left him lying there an hour or so before. He bent, pressed at his throat. There _was_ a pulse, weak as it was, beneath Steve’s fingertips. _Just_ there. It wouldn’t be, not for much longer, but he was still, _technically_ , alive for the moment. 

"He's still alive. For now."

"Am I just _alive for now_ , too?"

"Maybe." He shrugged, pulled the knife out of Neil’s spine with a snap. The bowie he'd taken from his father's office. Gift from some business partner, but Steve had claimed it as his own. His father no longer had a use for it. "Maybe not. I don't _want to_ , but it's not up to me. All depends on you. All depends on how you answer that question I mentioned."

"What question?" he asked, nearly begging. 

Steve smiled and stepped closer, pressed his hand to Billy's unmarred cheek.

He flinched, first. But then he shuddered, unconsciously tilted his face against Steve's palm for a moment before, his gaze turned back to the man lying just feet away.

"What about _you_ , Billy Hargrove? You somethin' I need to get rid of?" He pressed the tip of the blade to Billy’s chin, tilting his face back up and away from the sight of Neil lying in the dirt. "Or are you somethin' that I need to take care of?"

Billy opened his mouth to answer, but only a cloud of breath pushed out.

Steve bent low, pressed a few gentle kisses across his slack, trembling lips. He tasted like salt and stale beer and smoke. Steve swiped a few tears off his bruised cheek, where Neil must've caught him a few days before. No more of that, he decided. One way or the other.

“But that’s not the question I wanna ask, not exactly. I think I know the answer to that one, and I’d rather not have you lie to my face,” he murmured, and gently tapped the flat of the blade against Billy’s cheek. It left behind a smear of blood, dark and thick, but he still didn’t move. “I got uses for you, still, anyway. So, no, that’s _not_ the question.”

Billy’s gaze had stopped flickering to the body lying feet away, all his attention on Steve. His eyes flickered between Steve’s mouth, his eyes, trailing over every inch he could get his gaze on. 

“No, no, Billy, _baby_ , the question I wanna ask is so much simpler than all that,” he promised, smiling a little. Steve flicked his head toward Neil, offered the stained knife hilt out toward him on the flat of his palm. 

Billy’s hands were free. He could take that knife by force if it came to it, use it however he wanted. He could flee, try and run for help. If he wanted--if he really, _truly_ wanted--he could easily take Steve down, even without the knife, and put him in the dirt right next to his old man. He _could_ do any of that, all of that, if he really wanted.

But he didn’t move. He stared up at Steve with wide eyes, lips parted around his shallow puffs of breath. _Waiting_.

“Are you gonna help me, or not?”


End file.
